


White Lies

by foxybadger42



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drinking problems, Established Relationship, M/M, Married Couple, post depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-18 09:13:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3564224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxybadger42/pseuds/foxybadger42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft believes lying is acceptable as long as Greg doesn't find out. Especially if it means he's doing Greg a favour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Lies

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill from Tumblr: ✄ for hateful kiss

It wouldn’t be the first time he would walk out on his husband, red in the face and fuming with anger. Being married to Mycroft Holmes was far from easy, and Greg often needed more than the occasional shot of Scotch to be able to deal with the pompous behaviour of the elder Holmes.

'Where are you going?' the taller man would ask as Greg storms out of the living room.

'Out,' is all he says, grabbing his coat from the peck, angrily struggling to work his arm through the sleeve. 'I need air.'

'The quantity of air is the same out there as it is in here. Although I agree the quality might be a bit better inside the house than outside.’

Another frustrated groan from the detective inspector as he struggles to find the hole of the other sleeve. To his great annoyance, Mycroft is watching him, hands idly pushed in his pockets, resting with his shoulder against the door post.

'If you're thinking about going to the pub, then don't. You could just as well get a drink at home, where we have good quality of liquor instead of watered-down cheap lager.'

'Fuck —' Greg raises his hand, one finger up as if to tell the other man to stop talking now, '— your quality,' and he lowered his hand again, grabbed the door handle and aggressively pulling the front door open, ready to march out.

'Gregory,' Mycroft calls after him, closing his eyes for a second to compose himself. 'Walking away during a disagreement does not end said disagreement. We shall continue to disagree until either of us decides to agree with the other party.'

'This is not a disagreement,' Greg says as he turns, arms spread in a gesture of desperation. 'This is you believing that lying is acceptable as long as I don’t find out.’

'But it is,' Mycroft replies with a shrug. 'It doesn't matter if it's a lie, as long as you believe the truth, no?'

'But it isn't the truth, Mycroft!' Greg speaks slowly, as if Mycroft Holmes has suddenly de-aged 40 years and has to be explained the difference between lying and honesty. 'We're married — we're supposed to trust each other! How am I supposed to trust you when you're lying to me all the time?'

'I'm not lying all the time,' Mycroft replies with an annoyed scorn on his face, crossing his arms. 'I only lie about the amount of units of Scotch I consume at the club — or at the office — or with the Prime Minister — or with Prince Charles — or at home.'

'This is exactly what I'm talking about!' Greg blurts out, gesticulating wildly. 'You said at home only — we agreed one at home only! We agreed on how many units would be allowed! I’ve kept to our agreement, but you’ve been having your damned secretary bring you bottles of Whiskey so I wouldn’t find out! We were supposed to do this together!’ he finishes with a kick against the umbrella stand. Mycroft remains strangely impassive about the attack on his favourite accessory. He looks at his husband, non-responsive as the other is seething with anger, fists balled from frustration, taking the steps down to street level, ready to march off.

But the taller man speaks before Greg has set foot on the pavement:

'I made this agreement for one purpose only; to help you. I have no desire to stop drinking — but I know you do. By pretending I wanted to stop drinking, I had hoped to encourage you to do so too. I hoped it would take the temptation away for you. I agreed that if we would drink, we would do it together. At home — so I would be able to keep an eye on you, know what you were drinking, how much, and when it was time for you to stop. I made this agreement because I want you to drink with me, just so I would know you’d be safe and not exceeding your limits.’

Greg stares up at his husband, his anger slowly replaced by astonishment.

'W-What?'

'If you drink, I want to make sure you don't do anything irresponsible,' Mycroft rephrases, closing his eyes in annoyance as he continued to speak: 'I meant to monitor you myself, so I'd know what you're up to, and that you're not prone to relapsing.'

A silence falls between them, Greg still dumbfounded by what he is being told, Mycroft looking down at him, leaning against the frame of the frontdoor, still with his arms crossed and looking slightly agitated now.

'I —I,' Greg stammers, but Mycroft interrupts him:

'When was the last time you had a few too many, Gregory?'

'John — John and Mary's wedding.'

'Exactly. Because I wasn't there. I came to pick you up because I had taught your daughter to call me when you had drank too much. I have back-up plans to prevent your drinking to get out of hand, Gregory. But I myself have no desire to quit whatsoever,' he adds with raised eyebrows and a mocking tone in his voice.

'You — you don't?'

'Of course not,' Mycroft shrugs, his voice sounds agitated again. 'I merely pretended to help you.'

Silence.

Greg isn’t sure if he is disappointed or grateful.

In the distance, the sirens of a police car wails past.

Mycroft was right. From the two of them, it was always Greg who hadn’t dealt well with the alcohol. It had been fuel to his depression, going from bad to worse over time. His divorce. Sherlock’s Death. Mycroft’s involvement. They had all been a reason for him to find comfort with the bottle. It was never Mycroft who had suffered from a depression. It had always been him.

And drinking had only made it worse.

And apparently, Mycroft has tried for years to prevent him from falling back into a depression.

Greg wasn’t sure if he had succeeded, though.

A full minute has passed when Mycroft speaks again:

'So — are you going to the pub, or are you staying here so I can continue to fulfill my side of our agreement?'

Greg looks up, an angry frown on his face. That comment alone make him want to turn around and leave for the pub, just to spite the other.

But what would he gain with that?

With two large paces, he is on top of the steps again, closing the gap between them, and taking Mycroft’s face between his hands, forcing his lips against the other’s. He can feel Mycroft’s hand on his back, the other on his elbow. He pins the taller man hard against the door frame, ignoring the fact that they are snogging like teenagers in the porch of their own flat.

'You're going to give me a haemorrhage, one day,' Greg mutters against Mycroft's lips.

'That's exactly what I'm trying to prevent.'


End file.
